(no subject)
The room is crowded and running out of air; head swiveling from side to side, searching for the man that isn’t there. He’s twenty-eight with a kid, my rum-drunk lover: the one from Madrid. He’s got eyes that aren’t blue; a laugh that isn’t you. But in a room this crowded, when there’s no one to be found, he’ll do. It’ll do.
It’s been two weeks and three days since I met him in that alley; alone amongst the dark and gritty. Insisted on walking me home; insisted I was pretty. Didn’t find him as handsome, didn’t find him as witty, but the point was that I found him, here in this half-city. He took me on a journey through air and sea and skies. Whispered for me to let go and close my half-lidded eyes. (Felt his touch sweep over my spine, my hand, my thighs.)
There’s no savior in his sheets, but I always feel at home. It’s as if I’m loving myself without ever being alone. His bed creaks when I move, groans when I rise, but he never stirs to see me off, to offer his goodbyes. For every night is a wound, every caress and gasp a mistake, so I leave through the back door quietly, hoping he’ll never wake. (My exit leaves no imprint, never causes any ache.)
I blow-dry my hair every morning, dress scantily in the night, but no matter what he does, we’ll never get it right. It’s all teeth and hair and fervor. (He loves me as his beauty, nothing further.) It’s all elbows and alcohol and need- no softness or words-just personal greed. Shot glasses filled to rim, no conversation to begin, just me, the booze, and him. It’s a romantic illusion dreamed up all wrong; I’ve noticed (you’ve noticed) that I’m not very strong. I’m swallowed in my ability to live a life without you. (Even your smell on my sweatshirt is gone.)
But in this crowded room, the one without the air, when he first walks through the door, I could have sworn that was your hair. (But I know they changed the light bulbs; it must have been the glare.)
It’s been two weeks and three days since I met him in that alley; alone amongst the dark and gritty. Insisted on walking me home; insisted I was pretty. Didn’t find him as handsome, didn’t find him as witty, but the point was that I found him, here in this half-city. He took me on a journey through air and sea and skies. Whispered for me to let go and close my half-lidded eyes. (Felt his touch sweep over my spine, my hand, my thighs.)
There’s no savior in his sheets, but I always feel at home. It’s as if I’m loving myself without ever being alone. His bed creaks when I move, groans when I rise, but he never stirs to see me off, to offer his goodbyes. For every night is a wound, every caress and gasp a mistake, so I leave through the back door quietly, hoping he’ll never wake. (My exit leaves no imprint, never causes any ache.)
I blow-dry my hair every morning, dress scantily in the night, but no matter what he does, we’ll never get it right. It’s all teeth and hair and fervor. (He loves me as his beauty, nothing further.) It’s all elbows and alcohol and need- no softness or words-just personal greed. Shot glasses filled to rim, no conversation to begin, just me, the booze, and him. It’s a romantic illusion dreamed up all wrong; I’ve noticed (you’ve noticed) that I’m not very strong. I’m swallowed in my ability to live a life without you. (Even your smell on my sweatshirt is gone.)
But in this crowded room, the one without the air, when he first walks through the door, I could have sworn that was your hair. (But I know they changed the light bulbs; it must have been the glare.)